


Much Ado About Lacey

by ThatRavenclawBitch



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, RBB 2019, Rumbelle Big Bang, Woven Lace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 03:57:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18130646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatRavenclawBitch/pseuds/ThatRavenclawBitch
Summary: Detective Weaver wakes up to find himself in bed with a beautiful brunette named Lacey. Life would be good, if not for the fact that he'd been introduced to Lacey just the day before as the longtime girlfriend of his partner, Detective Rogers.





	1. Sigh No More

This wasn’t his bed.

That was the first thought Jim Weaver had upon opening his eyes on a Saturday morning in March. The second thought was to slam his eyes closed again at the pounding in his head.

It had been ages since he’d drank enough to have a hangover. He’d thought he’d worked up an immunity over the years, a steady diet of whisky and coffee leaving him perpetually waterlogged, caffeine and alcohol battling for dominance within his ravaged system. What had he done last night to drink so much?

He risked cracking his eyes open again to assess where exactly he was. The bed was softer than his own, the pillow behind his head far more plush than he was used to. His eyes watered a bit at the slice of sunlight coming in through a crack in the drapes, but it did illuminate the room enough to tell that he was in some kind of hotel, moderately priced by the looks of it.

There was a sniffle behind him and Weaver became aware of a warm presence beside him in the bed.

He shut his eyes, trying to remember just what had happened, a feeling of dread settling in his stomach. A one-night stand he couldn’t remember was certainly not a good way to start the day.

He glanced over his shoulder to be met with the sight of a creamy expanse of pale, flawless skin. The bedcovers were bunched around the woman’s waist, the top of her right buttock just visible from beneath. She had long dark hair, curling at the ends that had spilled across her face, blocking it from view. Weaver didn’t need to see her face to know who she was though.

_Shit_ , he thought, his teeth grinding together. He was the biggest bloody fuckup in the universe and this only drove the point home.

He inched to the edge of the bed, doing his best not to disturb his bed partner as images from the night before started to catch up with him.

Sparkling blue eyes over the rim of a martini glass. Ruby red lips pulled back in a flirtatious smile. Those same lips wrapped around his cock.

_Fuck!_

There was no denying that he’d woken up in bed with Lacey French, the longtime girlfriend of his partner and the closest thing he had to a friend. A man he sat across from at his desk every day. A man he pounded the pavement with until all hours of the night chasing down leads. A man who had specifically invited him to meet Lacey because he considered him a friend.

Weaver dragged a hand through his hair, pulling at it and relishing the sting. He deserved his hangover. He deserved worse.

The events of the night before began to flood his memory. He’d gone to Roni’s as directed only to find Lacey there alone. They’d had a drink together while waiting for Rogers but he’d never shown. At some point she’d placed her hand on his knee, biting her lip with a downright sinful look in her eye and he’d been weak and lonely and dear God he’d wanted her.

He yanked on his hair again. She’d been bloody perfect. The feel of her coming around his cock would probably haunt him until his dying day. But he had to get out of here and try to forget the whole thing ever happened or he’d never be able to look Rogers in the eye again.

He cast his eyes around, wincing at the morning gloom, until he saw his jeans hanging off the end of the bed. He snatched them up, pulling them on without bothering to find his boxers. He just needed to be presentable enough to walk through the hotel lobby. His shirt was by the bathroom door and he pulled it on as well, grabbing up his jacket from the armchair in the corner. He had just enough foresight to double check that his cell phone was still in the pocket before heading out the door, opening it with a gentle click.

Once he was in the hallway he checked his phone. Three missed calls from Rogers.

Fuck.

* * *

 

_The previous morning…_

Rogers was talking again.

It was impressive, really, how much the man could talk. When they’d first met, Weaver had taken his new partner for the strong, silent type. But over the past three months of working together, Rogers had opened up. Apparently he was loquacious once he was comfortable and unfortunately, Rogers had decided Weaver was his new best friend.

It wasn’t that he disliked the man. Quite the opposite, in actual fact. He was a competent detective, smart and in possession of a strong moral core that Weaver didn’t see much of these days. He was exactly the kind of person you wanted watching your back on a dangerous mission. But he’d never felt the need to be friends with his co-workers and after nineteen years on the job, that wasn’t likely to change. He was more than happy to talk work, but when Rogers had started asking him to grab a drink after their shift, he’d decided a line needed to be drawn.

Rogers was relentlessly optimistic though and Weaver’s more subtle hints to leave him alone had sailed right over his head. Now Weaver just tuned him out, letting the patter fade in to the background unless Rogers said something pertaining to work.

“So what do you think?” Rogers asked, finally pausing for breath.

Weaver took a stalling sip of his coffee. It was hot and he burned his lip, wincing as he set the cup back down on his desk a little too forcefully. A bit of the hot coffee sloshed over the side and burned his knuckle. Bloody wonderful.

“About what?” he groused, giving up any pretense that he’d been paying attention and sucking on his injured knuckle.

Rogers heaved a sigh.

“Did you hear a word I just said?”

“No,” Weaver said plainly, slapping a hand against the case file in front of him. “Because while you were flapping your gums, I was working on our case or have you forgotten that we’re actually on the job at the moment not a fucking quilting bee.”

Rogers rolled his eyes, tossing a file across their shared workspace, just two desks pushed together in an office off the bullpen.

“Mr. Samdi’s car is the same make and model as the one stolen last week and the MO’s are too similar to be unrelated. Add in those two Swyft drivers from the beginning of the month and I’d say we have a very active car thief in the neighborhood,” Rogers smirked as Weaver looked between him and the case file. “I understand it’s easier for younger people to multitask what with the prevalence of technology in our formative years. I’ll forgive you for being behind the times.”

“Oh fuck off,” Weaver groused, sitting back in his chair. “If you’re so clever, put together a profile for who we’re looking for.”

“Fine,” Rogers said with a snort, tapping in a few things to his desktop computer. “But I’m going to continue our conversation while I do it because I can multitask.”

He gave Weaver a roguish wink and Weaver let out an audible groan.

“Where was I?” Rogers continued, his eyes on his computer screen.

“Hell if I know, I learned to tune you out long ago.”

Rogers shook his head, staring down Weaver disapprovingly.

“Lacey is coming to town,” he said, enunciating the words as if he was speaking to a small child. Or an imbecile.

Weaver just stared at his partner.

“Who the bloody hell is Lacey?”

Rogers dropped his head against his hand.

“Lacey,” he said again, his voice rising slightly. “Fucking…look. I know you dislike me. You’re not exactly coy about it. But unfortunately you’re also the person I spend the most time with thanks to this job. Would it really kill you to get to know me? Just a bit?”

Weaver glowered at Rogers though honestly he was enjoying winding up his partner. The man was far too chummy.

“Lacey,” he repeated again. “Love of my life since the age of twelve when we were the only two kids at Lincoln Middle School with funny accents. Lacey who is in 90% of the stories I tell. Do you really tune me out that much?”

The name did tickle something in Weaver’s memory. Something must have worked its way into his skull at some point.

“She’s…Austrian?” he ventured a guess.

Rogers actually dropped his head against his desk, thumping it there dramatically.

“Australian,” he groaned.

“Right, that is a funny accent.”

“Lacey is coming in town today as I’ve mentioned about twenty times,” Rogers continued, lifting his head again. “I told her I’d introduce her to some of my friends and considering I’ve only been here a few months, there aren’t that many of them. You’re included.”

“We’re not friends,” Weaver grunted.

“Yes we are.”

“No, we’re work colleagues. Different thing.”

“We’re friends,” Rogers said, his voice dark. “Look at us, bantering away right now. Friends.”

Weaver shifted in his seat, chancing another sip of his coffee now that it had time to cool.

“So who else are you counting in that illustrious company,” he asked.

“Well, Tilly,” Rogers said, counting off on his pointer finger.

“Tilly’s an informant,” Weaver cut across him.

“Yes, and she’s also our friend,” Rogers said. “Don’t even try denying that you care about that girl. No one buys that many marmalade sandwiches for a ‘work colleague’.”

“She’s useful,” he conceded.

“You’re a right ray of sunshine, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Oh I’m a cuddly teddy bear once you get to know me,” he deadpanned.

Rogers shook his head with a grin, counting off a few more names.

“Henry Mills, the guy with the podcast that we interviewed a few weeks ago and his buddy, Nick.”

Weaver sat forward, suddenly interested.

“Wait, the Swyft driver who got his car stolen? Why would you invite him?”

“We’ve been hanging out,” Rogers said with a shrug. “I hit the arcade every once in a while with him and Nick.”

“How old are you? Fifteen?”

“Thirty-two,” Rogers countered. “Which you’d know if you listened to a word I said.”

“You shouldn’t fraternize with a witness,” Weaver said with a grunt. “I hope you don’t mention the case, this is an ongoing investigation.”

“Nah, I call him up after work every day and give him a rundown of every file we have,” Rogers said sarcastically.

“You might slip up,” Weaver continued. “You’re hardly a steel trap and we can’t rule out this being an inside job. This guy has been a step ahead of us at every turn and if you’re spilling details of the investigation to someone involved in the theft…”

Rogers arched one of his overly expressive eyebrows. “You think Henry sold his own car to a chop shop and then reported it stolen? Why? He depends on that car for his livelihood.”

Weaver shrugged. “Insurance? Maybe he wanted a new one.”

“The car _was_ new!” Rogers exclaimed. “Look, not everyone is the villain in their own story like you. Have a little faith in people. Speaking of, when’s the last time you went on a date?”

Weaver let out an audible groan at the turn in the conversation. There was no chance of him divulging details of his personal life to Rogers.

“If I agree to meet this girl of yours will you shut up and finish the profile? Then we can see if Henry Mills fits the bill.”

Rogers shot him a grin that made Weaver wonder if this hadn’t been his endgame all along.

“That seems like a fair trade,” he said with a nod. “Be at Roni’s for 8:00 tonight. I’ll get there early to make sure we get a table.”

Weaver grunted in acknowledgment, turning back to his case file, his brain already firing away, drawing patterns between the disparate pieces of information.

“One drink,” he stated.

Rogers didn’t say anything, but he could see his wide smile in his peripheral vision and kicked himself at being played so easily. Well, one drink wouldn’t kill him. He’d make it a single and be out of there before the introductions were over.

* * *

The rest of the morning went on quietly enough until an intruder arrived in their midst a little before noon. Weaver picked up his head, smelling something musty on the air before Eloise Gardener arrived in the doorway of their office, her long red hair twisted into a white person’s impression of dreadlocks that just had the overall effect of making her look unwashed. Her long skirt swished the floor, a collection of bangles on her wrists jangling together in a cacophony.

Rogers had helped her with a break in to her flower shop a few weeks ago and she’d stopped by almost daily ever since, her crush quickly turning from amusing to a nuisance.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite detective,” she said, swanning forward to their abutting desks.

“Ms. Gardener,” Rogers said, inclining his head.

“Oh, dear, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Eloise?”

“At least once more,” he said, giving her a winning smile. Weaver rolled his eyes, thoroughly ignoring them.

Eloise placed a white paper bag down on Rogers’ desk with a shockingly loud thump and Weaver realized it was the source of musty smell. Eloise insisted on bringing by food that went straight in the bin as soon as she left. He was fairly certain the rats in the alley behind the precinct wouldn’t even touch it. She was no Sabine, the culinary goddess who owned the food truck Tilly worked for and stopped by on occasion with her heavenly beignets.

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d pop by with some baked goodies,” she said, gesturing at the bag. “My famous gluten free vegan muffins.”

Rogers raised an eyebrow. “Wow,” he said. “Sounds delicious.”

“They are,” Eloise said with a smile. “And that’s just a taste. If you’re not too busy this weekend, perhaps I can cook you a whole meal.”

Rogers’ eyes widened, looking panicked for a split second before he schooled his features.

“I’m terribly sorry, but my girlfriend will be in town,” he said, placing a hand over his heart, his face a mask of sincere regret. “We have a full weekend planned, I’m afraid.”

“Oh!” Eloise said, her smile faltering as she took in the information. A moment later she’d rallied, the smile back in place. “Well, what a lucky lady. The offer stands of course, if you ever find yourself in need of company.”

With one last smile tossed over her shoulder, Eloise was gone taking the scent of patchouli with her.

Rogers watched her go, giving an involuntary shudder.

“What is it about her that gives me the creeps?” he asked.

“She screams fatal attraction,” Weaver said without looking up from his work. “And even if she was totally sane, her cooking would probably do you in. You’re lucky Lacey is in town and providing you with an excuse.”

“What do you mean?” Rogers asked. “Oh! The girlfriend thing, yeah,” he chuckled to himself. “I suppose I am.”

They had a witness interview to conduct at noon and a task force meeting at 1:00 so it was late in the day by the time Weaver stepped out for his lunch break. He was heading down to the coffee shop at the end of the street when someone fell into step beside him.

“Hello to my favorite detective!” Tilly said in a sing-song voice, linking her arm with his. Her words were similar to Eloise’s own that morning, but the sentiment behind them was completely different.

“I know that’s a lie,” he growled, but did nothing to shake her off. “What do you need, Tilly?”

Her blue eyes went wide, a faux look of hurt crossing them.

“You wound me,” she said with a pout. “Why do I have to need something?”

He arched an eyebrow at her and Tilly rolled her eyes.

“Fine,” she said with a little shake of her shoulders, dropping Weaver’s arm. “I need to borrow some cash. Just to get me through the weekend. Sabine had to cut back hours on the food truck because she’s started taking on catering gigs and doesn’t have time to do both and so I’m kind of screwed.”

“So find another job,” he said pragmatically and Tilly scoffed.

“Spoken like a true Baby Boomer. You say that like it’s easy!” she exclaimed. “Besides I don’t want another job. I like Sabine. She’s nice to me.”

“I’m not a Baby Boomer, I’m not that old,” he groused, coming to a halt outside the coffee shop doors. Despite his prickly demeanor toward almost everyone, he did like Tilly and she was a useful asset. His eyes on the street, as it were. He couldn’t have her going hungry or getting evicted from her apartment and ending up on the streets again. Then she’d start doing something illegal for money and he could only turn a blind eye for so long.

“How much do you need?” he asked.

“$120,” she said, biting her lip and wincing like he might shout at her at any moment. Weaver sighed, pulling his wallet from his back pocket and peeling out a few twenties.

“I’ve only got $80 on me,” he said, holding out the bills. “I’ll get you the other $40 tomorrow.”

Tilly snatched the money out of his hand before throwing her arms around him, hugging him, and Weaver patted her awkwardly on the back.

“You’re a life saver!” she squealed. “I promise this money is going toward a very good cause.”

Weaver wasn’t entirely certain he liked the sound of that, but he just said “Alright,” starting to grow uncomfortable with the long hug Tilly was giving him.

“Got any favors you need doing,” she asked, finally letting him go. “Anything you need, I’m your woman.”

Weaver hesitated for a moment, mulling the thought over in his mind.

“Yeah, actually,” he said finally. “Henry Mills. What do you know about him?”

Tilly raised her eyebrows. “Rogers’ new buddy?” she shrugged. “I don’t know. I think he drives an uber.”

“Ask around the neighborhood,” he said with a nod. “Find out what you can.”

“You jealous your bestie is stepping out on you?” she asked with a suggestive wink.

“It’s not like that,” Weaver protested. “Just do it. And…don’t mention this to Rogers, alright?”

Tilly gave him another wink, tapping a finger aside her nose. “You’re my favorite, remember?”

She rolled up the twenties, stuffing them inside the beat up messenger bag slung across her shoulder before skipping off down the street. Weaver couldn’t help smiling as he watched her go before turning to head in to the coffee shop. It was only then he remembered they were a cash only establishment and he’d just given all his cash to Tilly.

He groaned, letting the glass door fall closed again and headed back to the station. It looked like he was foregoing lunch today.


	2. Man Is A Giddy Thing

It wasn’t unusual for Weaver to find himself at Roni’s on a Friday evening. Despite his rather taciturn disposition, he didn’t like to drink alone. Well, he didn’t like to drink alone in his apartment. Drinking alone in a crowd of people was another thing entirely.

Tonight though he was meeting people. _Friends_ , he thought, the word feeling out of place in regards to him. He’d put off getting a drink with Rogers for as long as humanly possible and now he’d finally gone and broken down. At least there would be other people there as well, a buffer of sorts to keep Rogers from getting too friendly. He’d have one drink and then slip out, leaving the younger people to their fun.

He’d timed it to be just a bit later than fashionably so – he always liked to make people wonder if he was going to show up at all – so he was surprised not to see a single familiar face as he worked his way through the after work crowd to the bar where a slender woman in her late 30s was mixing up cocktails, her dark curly bob held back from her face with an artfully tied bandana.

“Roni,” he called to the bartender, holding up a finger. She nodded to him, grabbing a bottle of whisky off the back wall before striding over.

“The usual?” she asked unnecessarily as she plunked a glass down in front of him and began to fill it.

“Have you seen Rogers tonight?” he asked and Roni’s head snapped up, a wide grin crossing her face.

“He finally worked you over,” she said with a chuckle.

“No,” Weaver said, grabbing the whisky tumbler from Roni with a bit more force than necessary, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides of the glass. “He’s got some girl in town and wanted to introduce her to people. I’m here for one drink and that’s it.”

Roni gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him for a minute.

“Just admit they finally gave you a partner you actually like. There are worse things than getting along with your co-workers.”

As if on cue, a loud smash came from behind the bar and Roni whipped her head around to where a girl with dark blonde hair and large glasses was looking down at a pile of shards that used to be pint glasses.

“I am so, so sorry, Aunt Roni,” the girl said, rushing off for a broom.

Roni sighed, turning back to Weaver. “You could have one foisted on you by familial obligation instead,” she snarked, but there was no real venom behind it. “Anyway, no. I haven’t seen Rogers. Maybe it’s your lucky night.”

Roni made her way down the bar to the next patron and Weaver took a sip of his drink, enjoying the way the liquor burned down his throat and settled warmly in his belly. He braced an elbow against the bar, turning to scan the crowd for Rogers once more without luck. No sign of Tilly or Henry Mills either and he began to wonder if this was some elaborate set up. He didn’t actually think Rogers capable of being malicious toward him, but perhaps they’d changed the venue for their meeting at the last second and forgotten to tell him. Just as well. Now he didn’t have to stay.

The scent of onion rings wafted toward him as Roni’s niece carried a tray over to one of the tables along the wall and his stomach rumbled, reminding him he’d had nothing but coffee all day. He needed to go grab something to eat or the whisky would go to his head.

He finished off the last of his drink, thunking it back down and leaving a few crumpled bills on the bar for Roni before turning back toward the exit. If Rogers was a no show, he wasn’t going to complain. He’d made a good faith effort and now he was off the hook.

He wasn’t watching where he was going, busy stuffing his wallet back into his jacket pocket, when he ran into someone, his shoulder bouncing against the other person and causing them to drop the contents of their right hand.

Weaver shot a hand out, managing to pluck a falling pack of cigarettes from the air, but missing the cellphone that glanced against his hand, landing on the floor with a clatter.

“Pardon me,” Weaver grunted, bending to pick up the phone now bearing a large spider web of cracks marring the screen.

He glanced up from his position crouched on the bar floor and his mouth fell open at the sight of the person whose phone he’d apparently just destroyed.

Legs. That was the first thought that entered his head as his eyes traced those beautiful, perfect legs up to where they emerged from a skirt so short that if the girl wearing it had been even average in height it would have been obscene. As it was, despite the very long legs attached to the girl, she was tiny enough to be several inches shorter than him once he stood to his full height. Her tiny skirt was accompanied by an equally tiny crop top showing off a hint of black lace beneath the loose fabric and topped by a distressed denim jacket, slipping from one shoulder in an artfully careless way. Rosy cheeks, a wide smile and sparkling blue eyes were all topped off with a mass of dark chestnut curls pulled to one side and tumbling over her shoulder. If Weaver could have given a sketch artist a rough description of his ideal woman, the end product would have looked remarkably like the woman in front of him.

“Hey,” he said stupidly.

“Hi,” the woman returned. “Nice reflexes.”

She nodded at the pack of cigarettes in his hand and he held it out to her.

She gave him a once over, her gaze long and lingering and making a shiver run pleasurably down his spine before pulling a cigarette from the pack and placing it between smirking red lips.

“I’m afraid your phone screen didn’t survive the fall,” he said, handing the beat up phone back to her as well.

The girl snorted, stuffing the pack of cigarettes into her jacket pocket before taking the phone from his outstretched hand.

“Nah it was smashed already,” she said with a shrug, causing her jacket to slip further down her shoulder. “Just holding out for an upgrade, you know?”

She had a slight accent. Australian perhaps, but tempered by years in the States as his own had been.

The woman was still looking at him, her eyes tracing over him as she lit the cigarette between her lips, taking a long drag before blowing the smoke out to the side. She braced a hand against her slim hip, the cigarette perched between two fingers of her other hand.

“You’ll do,” she pronounced finally with a nod of her head.

“For what?” he couldn’t help asking.

“Buying me a drink, obviously.”

With that she made a beeline through the crowd for the bar and Weaver was helpless but to follow along in her wake, his early night suddenly not so tempting.

“And what makes you think I’m interested in buying you a drink?” he asked as they reached the bar. The woman stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray and then leaned over the bar, stretching a hand out to get Roni’s attention.

“Oh you’re interested,” she said, casting a smile over her shoulder at him. “And even if you weren’t, you owe me for breaking my phone.”

“Your phone that was already broken?”

“You can’t prove that,” she said. “Maybe I was lying to spare your feelings.”

“You don’t seem the type to worry about someone’s feelings,” he said, sliding in to the spot next to her at the bar.

“Fuck you, I’m a sweetheart,” she said with a laugh as Roni approached.

“Vodka martini,” she ordered. “Dirty. And whatever he’s having.” She thumbed over her shoulder at Weaver and Roni gave him a raised eyebrow, looking back and forth between him and his new companion.

“The usual,” he said with a nod. What was one more drink? Especially when the company was 5 foot 2 with eyes of blue.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he stepped away from the bar to pull it out, glancing down at a text from Rogers.

 

_Sorry. Can’t make it. Big emergency._ _:(_

 

Weaver grimaced at the use of emojis before he tapped in a message of his own.

 

_Work emergency?_

 

The little ellipses appeared at the bottom of the screen indicating Rogers was typing before another message popped up.

 

_Nah. Personal. Tell you about it tomorrow._

 

Weaver rolled his eyes. He had no doubt he’d hear all about Rogers’ very fulfilling social life tomorrow. It was just as well though. If Rogers had had a tiff with his girlfriend and decided to stay home, Weaver had no other obligations and could spend the rest of his evening on a pretty brunette.

His phone buzzed again and he glanced down, reading Rogers’ latest message.

 

_Lace is on her way though. Make sure she has a good time and see her home safe._

 

Weaver frowned. Rogers was cancelling for personal reasons that didn’t involve the infamous Lacey? And now he was going to be stuck babysitting a woman he didn’t even know. Unless…

The brunette in the short skirt was still leaned against the bar, her pert little backside angled at him to its best advantage and he groaned. Rogers had said she was Australian, right?

He reached out, tapping the woman on the shoulder and she turned, handing him his whisky.

“I don’t suppose your name is Lacey.”

Her eyebrows shot up for a moment before comprehension dawned in her eyes.

“You must be Weaver,” she said, taking a sip of her martini. “I’ve gotta say, Rogers didn’t describe you well at all.”

Weaver grimaced. He was certain no description of him would ever be flattering.

“How so?”

Lacey shrugged. “He didn’t tell me you were a silver fox.”

Weaver snorted. “It’d have been weird if he had.”

“Just take the compliment,” she said, her blue eyes mischievous over her martini glass. She wasn’t exactly what he pictured in a partner for Rogers. He’d imagined someone pretty and sweet, buttoned up with a cardigan. Lacey was certainly pretty, just not in the way he’d expected.

“Your boy has cancelled on us,” he said, wagging his phone in her direction. “Said it was some sort of emergency.”

Lacey rolled her eyes, sagging against the bar.

“Yeah I know. He told me to come along without him. I swear, I come all this way and he just ditches me.”

Despite her words, her voice didn’t sound annoyed and there was a smile playing across her lips. He got the feeling she wasn’t nearly as put out as he expected her to be.

“Well, I’m sure you have better things to do,” he said, taking a sip of his drink before placing it on the bar top. “Don’t feel like you have to stick with me all night.”

“On the contrary,” Lacey said, plopping down on an empty barstool. “Barring one appointment tomorrow, I’ve got nothing planned for the whole weekend so don’t you dare go abandoning me. I can’t be dropped by two detectives in one night or I’ll seriously question the integrity of the Seattle PD.”

Weaver grinned, turning his glass in his hand. “I’ll do my utmost to repair our reputation.”

They drank in silence for a moment as Weaver cast around for something to talk about. He didn’t like the feeling of disappointment in his chest at the reveal of Lacey’s identity. She might be looking for a drinking companion, but he really should just go home.

“So how did you meet Rogers?” he asked finally, swirling the whisky around in his glass and watching the rings of condensation it left across the bar.

“Sixth grade,” Lacey said succinctly. “Do you really want to talk about him?”

Weaver shrugged. “He’s the only thing we have in common.”

Lacey narrowed her eyes. “I sincerely doubt that,” she said. “Favorite band?”

Weaver frowned, drumming up an acceptable answer. “The Beatles,” he said.

Lacey shot him a look. “You can’t say the Beatles. Everyone says the Beatles. It’s the fucking Beatles.”

“Not unique enough for you?”

“No, it’s just like the baseline, you know? We can assume everyone with remotely decent musical tastes’ baseline favorite band is the Beatles. So why even mention it?”

“Fine,” Weaver said, taking another sip of his drink, enjoying the muddling of his senses for once. “Oasis.”

“Anyway, here’s Wonderwall,” Lacey snorted into her martini.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just a…joke. Anyway, Oasis. Good band. Natural successor to the Beatles. I’ll give it to you.”

“Well thank you very much.”

“Favorite movie?” she continued her line of questioning.

“Dumbo,” he said without hesitation.

“No way,” Lacey said flatly.

“What, you expected me to say The Godfather or something?”

“No I mean no one in the history of the world has ever liked Dumbo. Are you kidding me? I can’t even think about that movie without crying!”

“Why?” Weaver asked. “It’s got a happy ending.”

“That bloody Baby Mine scene!” Lacey exclaimed, flicking the ash from her cigarette forcefully. “It’s the single saddest moment in film history!”

“I don’t know,” Weaver said. “I always found it kind of beautiful. How much his mother loved him in spite of his imperfections.”

“Yeah, that’s what mums do,” Lacey said.

Weaver just smiled thinly, taking another sip of his drink. He wouldn’t know the first thing about what mums did. His had abandoned him before he could walk. As a child, his father had taken him on a rare excursion out to the theater and they’d seen Dumbo. He could still remember the wonder his five year old self sat in, watching the old movie play out on screen. To have a mother who loved her son that much, to sacrifice everything to protect him, had been nothing short of a revelation to young Jimmy.

“What’s your favorite then?” he asked, inclining his head toward her. “If you’re so judgmental of mine.”

“Casablanca,” Lacey said without hesitation. “It’s the perfect film.”

Weaver raised an eyebrow.

“What?” she asked. “Thought I’d say Showgirls?”

He snorted a laugh. “No. I’m just thinking that I can’t believe you implied The Beatles were basic when you bust out with Casablanca as your favorite film.”

“You’ve got something against Casablanca?” she asked.

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “On the contrary, I’ve never seen it. I just know it’s one of those movies that tops every list of important films I’ll never see.”

“Never seen…” Lacey trailed off with a shake of her head. “Clearly we’re getting nowhere with movies.”

She sat back on her barstool, tapping a finger against her chin in thought before her eyes lit up and a cheeky grin crossed her lips.

“Okay, here’s one for you. Favorite sexual position?”

He sputtered on his drink, the whisky burning up his nostrils.

“Excuse me?”

“I think you heard me just fine,” Lacey said, that infernal smirk back on her face.

This was the type of conversation he’d love to have with an attractive woman blatantly flirting with him. If said attractive woman wasn’t dating his partner. He drank down the rest of his drink, thunking the empty glass down on the bar and signaling for Roni. She appeared a moment later, refilling his glass with another curious glance between Weaver and Lacey.

“Woman on top,” he said finally. “I like the view.”

“And I like the control,” Lacey said with a wink, leaning forward with her hand on his knee. “See we do have something in common after all.”

He felt hot under his collar at the look she was giving him, her blue eyes positively sinful above the rim of her martini glass. Her hand on his knee felt scorching, like her touch was burning clear through the denim and lighting the skin beneath aflame.

“So what do you do?” he asked, casting around for a topic that wouldn’t have him dragging Rogers’ girlfriend to the bathroom to shag her senseless. That image wouldn’t be leaving him for a while.

Lacey smiled, seemingly aware that she’d gotten under his skin and proud of herself for the fact.

“What do you think I do?” she asked, sitting back. It was equal parts agony and relief when she removed her hand from his knee. “Use those detective skills.”

“Oh I don’t know,” he said, wracking his memory for any mention Rogers may have dropped of her profession and coming up empty. “Pool shark?”

Lacey snorted. “Show’s what you know. I’m an attorney.”

The surprise must have shown on his face because she snorted again.

“Not what you picture when you picture a lawyer?” she asked, crossing one long leg over the other, her skirt riding up a bit higher with the motion. His eyes dropped to her legs and he knew Lacey had done it on purpose.

“You don’t look like any of the lawyers I deal with on a daily basis,” he said. “What kind of law? I don’t suppose you’re in criminal defense.”

“Real estate,” Lacey countered. She fished something out of the tiny purse dangling from her shoulder, surfacing a moment later with a small cream and blue card.

“Lacey French, Esq. Your one stop shop for all your real estate and tax law needs,” he read aloud. “How’s that working out for you?”

Lacey shrugged. “Maine isn’t exactly bustling with activity. Not like here with all the development going on.”

“The upside of gentrification,” he said, raising his glass in salute. “All that work for the blood-sucking lawyers.”

Lacey clinked her glass against his. “I know you mean that as an insult, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“Weaver,” Roni said across the bar. “Another?”

He glanced down at his glass, surprised to see that it was empty already.

“Why not?” he said with a shrug, the pleasant buzzing in his head egging him on.

Roni shot him a disapproving look, but didn’t say anything more as she refilled his glass.

“Does everyone just call you Weaver?” Lacey asked, watching as Roni walked away.

“Everyone calls Rogers by his last name,” he pointed out.

“That’s not true,” Lacey said. “I call him James. I just didn’t think you’d know who I was talking about if I used his first name. So, what’s yours?”

“Oh you’ve got to do something special for the privilege of that information,” he said cheekily.

“That could be arranged,” she said, grabbing her drink off the bar and standing up. “Come on, Weaver. I’ll show you just what a pool shark I am.”

The crowd thinned a little once the after work crowd had moved on and they were eventually able to find a table beneath one of the wide arched windows at the front of the bar after Lacey had thoroughly schooled him in pool. She sank into the brown leather couch to one side and Weaver eyed the chair opposite her before sitting next to her on the couch instead.

Roni’s niece appeared with a basket of onion rings, setting it down on the low table in front of them.

“Roni said you could use these,” she said with a wary look that proved she’d been warned about him by her aunt.

“Thanks,” he said with a sharp smile. But once she’d darted off he grabbed one of the crispy onion rings, popping it in his mouth hoping it might soak up a bit of the alcohol in his system so he could drive home.

He couldn’t remember what number drink he was on now. He’d had a steady flow of whisky since he arrived at the bar hours ago and the world had gone pleasantly hazy in a way he hadn’t experienced in years. He felt light, buoyant, like he could tackle the world.

God, he was fucking wasted.

“I, um,” he dragged a hand across his mouth. “I think this is it for me.”

He looked down at the last dregs in his glass, slamming them back before plopping the glass back on the table. “Don’t want to get sloppy.”

Lacey chortled, finishing off her drink as well before pushing herself up off the sofa unsteadily.

“Same,” she said, looking down at him. “Thanks for a pleasant evening, Detective.”

“The pleasure was all mine.”

He walked Lacey out the front door of Roni’s, one arm wrapped around her waist, purely for balance he told himself. His hand brushed against the skin of her midriff beneath her jacket and he sighed inwardly at the softness of her skin.

Once they were outside, Lacey turned to face him, rubbing her hands together in the brisk night air.

“Walk me back to my hotel?” she asked.

“Hotel?” he repeated, surprised. “You’re not staying with Rogers?”

Lacey rolled her eyes. “Hardly. The man’s been living like a bachelor for the past three months. He doesn’t own hand towels or soap that doesn’t come on a rope. I know from experience not to expect hospitality at his place.”

“So you came all this way to visit and you’re staying in a hotel?”

Lacey shrugged. “I’m meeting him for breakfast tomorrow. It’s not like I won’t see him.”

It was odd. If Lacey was his girlfriend and he hadn’t seen her in months he was fairly certain they’d spend a solid 48 hours becoming intimately reacquainted until driven out of the bedroom by the need for sustenance. Instead Rogers was off doing God knows what and pawning his beautiful girlfriend off on his co-worker. But he supposed it was none of his business anyway. Perhaps when you’d been together since the age of 12 some things just didn’t seem as important.

“Lead the way,” he said, gesturing widely with his arm. Lacey grabbed hold of it, linking it in her own and leaning against him, a warm little presence snuggled into his side. She felt good there, right, comfortable, and he thought again how perfectly sized she was for him. He thought if he spooned up behind her in bed, she’d fit in the crook of his body just perfectly.

Weaver shook his head. He shouldn’t be thinking about her that way, no matter that he’d had more than usual to drink and was walking her back to her hotel. She was off limits.

“What?” Lacey asked, bumping in to him, a little unsteady on her heels. “Why are you shaking your head?”

“No reason,” he said. “Just clearing it.”

Lacey snorted. “You really can’t handle your liquor.”

“Excuse me?” he said, drawing up short, and Lacey tumbled into him, her heel catching on a crack in the sidewalk and pitching her forward into his waiting arms. Suddenly she was pressed against him, all of her. He could feel her breasts pressing into his chest, the slight weight of her against him as her hands clung to his shoulders. She smelled heavenly beneath the scent of cigarettes and vodka. Something sweet and delicious like honeysuckle on a summer day.

“Hi,” she said, looking up at him with a smile. His hands had somehow found their way to her waist, his thumbs drawing patterns against her exposed skin of their own accord. She was so soft, and so pretty in the reflections of the neon lights of the city night. Rogers was an idiot for abandoning her.

He realized Lacey was moving, her small hands dropping from his shoulders to stroke over his chest.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his heart beating faster as her hand stroked down the line of buttons on his shirt, finally stopping to rest against his belt buckle.

“Just having a little fun,” she said. Her mouth was deliciously close to his and her tongue darted out to touch his lips playfully, a wicked smile crossing her beautiful face.

“What about Rogers?” he asked, his hands moving from her waist over the curve of her hips of their own accord.

“What about him?” Lacey asked with a shrug. “He’s not here.”

It was wrong. He knew it was wrong. But the whisky had his brain pleasantly muddled and it was easy, oh so easy, to turn what little conscience he had off completely. Lacey licked at his lips again and this time he didn’t hold back, hauling her to him and capturing her mouth with his own.


	3. A Star Danced

Lacey’s hotel was only a few blocks away and they stumbled there blindly, stopping every once in a while to kiss each other senseless. Before he knew it, they’d made their way up to her room and as soon as she’d gotten the door open with her key card, he kissed her, spinning her around and pressing her against the wall. Lacey’s leg came up to hitch around his hip and he ground his growing erection against her. She let out a moan, letting her head fall back against the wall and he took the opportunity to kiss down her throat, biting and sucking at her soft skin.

His hands wandered beneath her jacket, under her silly little crop top and over the lace of her bra, squeezing her gently. Her breasts were soft, but firm, fitting perfectly in his hands and he grunted as he thrust against her, his hands sliding down to span her waist and then lower to the hem of her skirt. His fingers danced up her thigh, slipping up under her skirt as he found her mouth once more.

Her hands pushed at his leather jacket and he shook it off, hearing it fall behind him with a thump on the hotel carpet. His shirt was next, leaving him in nothing but a white V-neck t-shirt and Lacey dragged her hands down his chest, her nails raking across his nipples through the thin fabric and he bucked against her, hard as steel in his pants. He wanted to feel her hands on his bare skin and he pulled back from her to yank his t-shirt over his head and cast it aside.

Lacey licked her lips, looking him over approvingly before grabbing him by the back of the neck and pulling him back to her for a rough kiss, a clash of teeth and tongues that had him dizzy from more than the alcohol.

Any and all thoughts of anyone but Lacey herself were far from his mind now. Alcohol and lust fueled him and there was no one in the world but the gorgeous woman pinned between him and the wall.

He slipped a hand beneath the edge of her panties, parting the warm petals of her sex with his finger. She was deliciously hot and wet and he wanted to fall to his knees and bury his face in her. And since he was solely living on impulse at the moment, he did just that.

He grabbed Lacey’s right leg, lifting it up to rest on his shoulder as he hitched her skirt up around her waist.

“Shit,” Lacey whimpered as he dragged his tongue across the gusset of her panties, the lace rough against his tongue.

“Now this is a silly little garment,” he said, pulling back to pluck at her thong. “Lets get rid of it shall we?”

Lacey nodded, and they wasted no time in working the thong down over her legs and tossing it across the room.

There was nothing between them now, just Lacey’s gorgeous cunt right at eye level. Her dark curls were trimmed neatly above her sex, her petals pink and glistening. She was perfect in every way.

He parted her folds with his fingers, probing her with his tongue and Lacey let out a shuddering gasp.

“God you taste fucking fantastic,” he groaned as her salty sweetness bathed his tongue. He wanted to drown in her, he wanted her essence all over him.

His hands moved around behind her to grab her ass, pulling her against him. He lapped at her, his nose brushing against her clitoris with every drag of his tongue.

“Yes,” Lacey moaned. “Like that. Just like that. Fuck!”

Her hands scrabbled for purchase in his hair, her short nails biting against his scalp, the sting only adding to the pleasure of the moment.

Her leg was wrapped around his shoulders and he removed one hand from her bottom, bringing it up to work two fingers into her slick channel, thrusting in to her slowly as he lapped at her clit with his tongue.

Lacey was gasping for breath above him, her hips shunting against his face and he closed his lips around her clit, sucking until she screamed, her thighs shaking and her grip on his hair growing painful.

He only had a moment’s notice before her legs gave out and she sank against the wall. Weaver gripped on to the backs of her thighs, easing her the rest of the way down to the floor.

“Holy shit,” she said with a breathless laugh, pushing sweat damp hair out of her face. “That was…good job on that. Credit where it’s due. It’s been a while since I’ve had that and…” she trailed off, shaking her head.

Weaver wondered again at Rogers’ neglect. If he’d been lucky enough to have Lacey as his girlfriend, he’d give her everything she could ever want, his tongue, his fingers, his cock, he’d dedicate them all solely to her pleasure.

A sick feeling settled in his stomach at the thought of Rogers. The room was spinning slightly from the amount he’d imbibed but it wasn’t enough to keep him guilt free. Still, he could leave now. Perhaps this was still a forgivable offense.

Before he could follow that line of thought, Lacey leaned forward, kissing him again.

“Fuck,” she groaned against his lips, dipping her tongue into his mouth to chase her own taste. She licked a stripe down his throat, shoving him back from where he was still kneeled just inside the doorway.

“Go sit on the bed,” she commanded, using his shoulder to pull herself up. Lacey shook her jacket off, letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. Then she kicked off her heels making her suddenly several inches shorter.

_Made for him._ His treacherous mind yelled out again. He’d never been tall in comparison to anyone he’d dated. Lacey was perfectly petite, the perfect compliment to him.

Her crop top, bra and skirt followed her shoes and jacket and before Weaver knew it, Lacey was standing before him completely naked.

He sat down hard on the bed, his eyes bulging as they traced over her perfect curves, pale skin and long limbs. Her breasts were even better than they felt, flushed pink in the dim light, her nipples tight little buds. She had the grace of a dancer as she stalked toward him, hips swaying, and he wondered if she’d ever done ballet.

“What?” she asked, her cheeks still pink from her orgasm. “See something you like?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. He reached for her, intending to pull her over him, but Lacey had other plans. She sank to her knees in front of the bed, rubbing her hands up and down his thighs, her nails rasping across the denim.

“Now,” she said, a wicked look in her blue eyes. “Your turn.”

Weaver didn’t have it in him to protest as Lacey unhooked his belt, followed by his button and fly freeing his rigid cock at last.

“Well,” Lacey said, sitting back on her heels. “That’s a relief.”

He arched an eyebrow at her and she continued.

“I mean I got a definite Big Dick Energy vibe, but it’s nice to have confirmation.”

Weaver snorted, but it turned into a grunt when she took him in hand, stroking him lightly.

“What do you like?” she asked, her palm sliding against the underside of his cock. “Show me.”

“Tighter,” he managed, and Lacey tightened her grip around him, stroking him faster. She gave him one last devious smirk before her mouth closed around him and he nearly lost his mind.  

“Good…good girl,” he stuttered out.

She worked her mouth further down his length, hollowing her cheeks and sucking until her throat closed up around him and Weaver grabbed her hair, pulling her off him.

“What?” she asked with faux wide-eyed innocence.

“Any more of that and I’ll be useless for a minute,” he said, pulling her up to straddle his lap. “I intend to enjoy all of you.”

Lacey undulated her hips, the heat of her brushing against his naked cock, and he picked her up, pressing her back against the mattress and hovering over her. Her hair had come loose from its ponytail, dark tendrils fanning out around her face. The smirk had turned to a full-blown smile and she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.

He kissed her again, his hand skimming down her side, finding its way back between her legs and stroking her. Lacey’s back arched up off the bed, her breasts pressing against his chest, and he buried his face in her neck, breathing in the sweet scent of her.

He pulled back, pushing his pants down his hips and kicking them off before crawling back over Lacey, kissing his way across her chest as he went. He cupped her breast, kissing her nipple, feeling it pebble beneath his lips before taking it in his mouth and sucking gently. Lacey’s head rolled back into the pillows, her hands sliding down his arms.

“Condoms,” she moaned out, her fingers clasping at his bicep. “In my bag.”

Weaver nodded, reaching to the bedside table and snatching up her purse. After a moment of digging he found a couple foil wrapped packages and tossed them on to the bed next to Lacey.

She looked down at the multiple condoms and then back up at Weaver with an arched eyebrow.

“Confident, aren’t we?”

“The first one is just to take the edge off,” he said, kneeling up between her parted thighs and rolling one of the condoms on. “We’ll have the real fun after that.”

He grabbed her by the hips, pulling her closer and Lacey let out a squeal followed by a laugh that ended in a snort. God, she was adorable.

“You sure about this?” he found the wherewithal to ask. They hadn’t completely damned themselves yet. They could still back out.

“God, yes, fuck me!” she yelled. Well, there was nothing for it now.

“Alright,” he said with a wag of his head. He took himself in hand and pushed inside her slowly, groaning at the heavenly feel of her around him.

“Damn you feel good,” Lacey moaned, her hands gripping on to his arms as he started to thrust against her. He bent his head to kiss her neck, sucking her skin, tasting salt and vanilla.

His heart was pounding in his chest, all his concentration focused on not fucking this up and coming immediately. It had been a while, though not as long as some might think, and the last thing he wanted was to embarrass himself from sensory overload.

She lifted her hips beneath him, allowing him to push deeper and he grabbed on to her ass, holding her there as his thrusts grew more erratic. His other hand found hers, his fingers twining with hers as he pushed her hand down against the mattress.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he grunted against her ear. “Come for me.”

Lacey shuddered beneath him, her head falling back in a silent scream. He continued to pump into her, drawing out her climax until he couldn’t hold back. He gripped on to her hips, hard enough to bruise, his back arching as he came, hard.

He let out a cry, the blood pounding in his ears, the only thing in the world that mattered was the feel of her around him, fluttering as she worked through her orgasm, until he collapsed atop her, his head on her chest. He could feel Lacey’s heart beating just as quickly as his surely was, smell the sweat on her skin. It was heady and primal and right.

But wrong.

He pushed the thought out of his head. He’d worry about Rogers tomorrow. For now, he wanted to curl up around Lacey, leave his scent and his mark on her for the world to see. She was made for him and a bloody lummox like Rogers could never understand.

He rolled to the side, sated and spent.

“Sorry,” he murmured sleepily. “Was crushing you.”

Lacey let out a breathy laugh, turning to face him. “Don’t mind.”

She stretched out languidly, like a cat, her arms stretched up to touch the headboard and pushing her breasts out. He was more than interested in a round two as soon as his body wanted to cooperate.

“We didn’t do our favorite position,” Lacey said, rolling her head to the side to look at him. “Seems like a missed opportunity.”

Weaver snorted, his breath ruffling her curls.

“There’ll be time for that,” he said. “Next one’s _on_ me.”

Lacey laughed again as she grabbed the bedcover, pulling it up over herself and Weaver pulled the used condom off, tossing it into the wastebasket beside the bed before joining her. She snuggled into his chest, rubbing her face against his skin with a dreamy smile on her face and he wanted to keep her, to tell her everything about himself and see if she still let him hold her.

For now, he’d settle with telling her his name.

“Jim,” he whispered into the darkness. “My name’s Jim.”

“James. Same as Rogers,” she said sleepily. “Makes it easy to remember.”

She may as well have punched him in the gut, but Weaver didn’t let on. He wrapped his arms around her and tried to enjoy one moment of perfect happiness no matter the hell tomorrow would bring.


	4. Men Were Deceivers Ever

In the end they’d tried out their favorite position twice and Weaver was feeling every one of his fifty years as he stumbled out the doors of the hotel, wincing at the full force of the spring morning. Every sound seemed amplified, birds singing louder than usual, cars disobeying noise ordinances with their racket. His car was parked back at Roni’s but he didn’t want to do a walk of shame past the precinct to retrieve it so he set off toward his apartment on foot, flipping up the collar on his jacket to block out the world around him.

It wasn’t to be.

“Good morning,” came Tilly’s chipper voice beside him and he winced.

“What’s so good about it?” he demanded.

Tilly’s blonde eyebrows rose up toward her hairline.

“Well I see you’re in an even better mood than usual,” she said. “Touchy. What were you doing at that hotel?”

“None of your business,” he groused.

“Police business?” Tilly asked. “At…” she checked the oversized pocket watch she kept around her neck. “6:30 in the morning?”

“Criminals don’t tend to keep regular hours,” he said by way of answer, but he could feel Tilly’s scrutinizing gaze on him.

“You smell like sweat,” she said. “And stale liquor. And I’m pretty sure that’s the same thing you were wearing yesterday though it can be hard to tell with you. You don’t have a lot of wardrobe diversity.”

Weaver groaned, wishing Tilly would just split. She was too clever for her own good and he wasn’t about to start explaining his night to her.

“Oh! You slept at that hotel last night!” Tilly exclaimed, stopping in the middle of the street and yanking Weaver to a standstill beside her. “So tell me. Who was the lucky lady? Or gentleman?”

She waggled her eyebrows at him suggestively and Weaver gave her what he hoped was a completely flat expression.

“Oh come on,” she said, looping her arm through his again as they resumed walking. “I’ll tell you all about my love life if you tell me about yours.”

“I don’t care,” he said.

Tilly shook her head. “Well I’ll tell you anyway. You know Roni’s niece that just moved to town? Margot?”

“Yes,” Weaver said. That must have been the clumsy girl who served him onion rings the night before.

“Yeah, well, she and I have a date. A proper date! Can you believe?”

Weaver hoped the girl was more careful with Tilly’s heart than she was with barware.

“I’m very happy for you,” he deadpanned.

Tilly just laughed, tightening her grip on his arm. “Alright, I told you about mine so now you owe me yours.”

“No.”

“I bet I can guess.”

“No.”

“You were in a hotel and not one that rents rooms by the hour, so I don’t think it was a hooker.”

Weaver let out an agonized groan at her continued questioning, letting his head roll back on his shoulders.

“Someone from out of town then,” Tilly continued, ignoring his outburst. “You really should just tell me. You know I’ll find out eventually. I know everything. Speaking of which, I wanted to tell you I did like you asked and looked for dirt on Henry Mills.”

Weaver perked up at that. Anything to take his mind of the events of the past few hours.

“And?” he prompted.

“And…” Tilly let the word hang in the air, anticipation building and she bounced on the balls of her feet. “I don’t know what you were looking for, but the man’s a boy scout. He drives a Swyft, dating a cute girl that works at Mr. Cluck’s, seems to spend his free time sitting around Roni’s trying to pen the great American novel. No skeletons in that closet. I think our boy Rogers is safe with him.”

Weaver deflated. His hunch that Mills was involved in the car thefts seemed a reach after all.

“Fine,” he said with a sigh. “Where’s he live?”

“Over at 39th and Fremont. Nice place. He has a roommate named Nick that works for a law firm downtown and is sweet on a barista named Evelyn.”

Weaver nodded, impressed in spite of himself. “You do good work, Tilly,” he said, pausing as they arrived at an intersection. “I owe you lunch on top of the $40.”

“Bet your ass you do,” she said with a wink, peeling off from his side. “I’m headed to work, but I’ll be by to remind you again later!”

He waved at her but Tilly wasn’t done, nearly screeching across the street at him.

“I’m gonna find out whose world you rocked, Weaver! Don’t think I forgot!”

* * *

 

A shower and a change of clothes did wonders for making him feel human again. A tall glass of water and a handful of aspirin worked even better. By 9 AM he could almost pretend last night had been nothing but a strange if pleasurable dream and he was headed to work like any other day.

That was until he walked through the doors of the precinct and the Desk Sergeant leapt to his feet, looking at him warily.

“Detective Weaver,” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

Weaver just looked at the man confusedly.

“I work here.”

“Of course, but you don’t usually come in this early on a Saturday unless there’s some sort of emergency.”

“Well that’s my business,” Weaver snapped, heading toward his office, not letting on that his brain was so addled he’d completely forgotten what day of the week it was. At least he wouldn’t have to see Rogers today. Surely he’d taken the day off to spend with Lacey.

Unfortunately, luck wasn’t on his side and by the time he’d popped by the break room for coffee, Rogers was already seated at his desk. Weaver averted his gaze, focusing on his coffee rather than the uncomfortable feeling of an elephant sitting on his chest as he took his seat opposite him.

“What are you doing here so early?” Rogers asked, his voice booming in the small office and making Weaver wince in spite of himself. Apparently his hangover wasn’t quite as cured as he’d thought.

“I could ask you the same,” he said, still avoiding eye contact.

Rogers sat forward, bracing his elbow on his desk.

“Lacey has an appointment in the neighborhood this morning so I thought I’d kill time here until she’s done. Anyway, I had a hunch about a case.” Rogers held up a sealed evidence bag with a blood-spattered notebook in it. “Do you remember that shooting on Fifth Street last month?

“Sure,” Weaver said. “Drug deal gone south. Shooter confessed. Open and shut.”

Rogers shook his head.

“I don’t think so. This notebook is mostly filled with the drawings and journal entries of the victim, but the last page is a series of numbers. VIN numbers. I ran them and they all match to cars reported stolen in the past six months.”

Weaver finally looked up at Rogers.

“You think our victim was the car thief?”

Rogers nodded.

“She had a rap sheet,” he said. “Mostly minor drug charges and a few for petty theft. No grand theft auto, but it’s not exactly a stretch to say she moved on to bigger fish.”

“But she was killed a month ago and Mr. Samdi’s car was stolen this week.”

“Perhaps she had an accomplice.”

“I’ll follow up on it,” Weaver said. “Track down any known associates.”

“I’ll come too,” Rogers said, getting to his feet.

“No,” Weaver said, drawing on years of experience as a detective to keep his face neutral. It was a good thing he’d spent most of his life hiding his emotions from people. It was second nature to him now when he really needed it. “You spend time with Lacey.”

Rogers sighed, bracing his good hand on his hip.

“Look, sorry I left you alone with her last night,” he said, and Weaver had a feeling his partner had no idea just how sorry he should be. “I had an issue with my shower. Damn thing flooded the whole bathroom and half the hall and the super was taking his dear sweet time. I spent the evening at the hardware store and then trying to fix it myself.”

“Your apartment flooded,” Weaver said, looking at him skeptically. “Well I suppose you can always stay with Lacey.”

The thought of Rogers sleeping in the bed he’d so recently defiled with Lacey made his stomach twist uncomfortably and the coffee in his belly suddenly didn’t feel so settled.

“Yeah,” Rogers said with a shrug. “I suppose I could. It’s not so bad now though. I rented a couple fans to dry the place out today.”

Weaver nodded, turning back to his computer, but Rogers stepped around the desk, coming to stand next to him. He placed a hand on Weaver’s shoulder and he startled, flinching away.

Rogers took a step back, an amused look on his face.

“Look, I just wanted to say thanks,” he said. “I know you weren’t keen on the idea of meeting Lacey in the first place and to be stuck alone with her was probably not how you imagined your night going. Lacey said you were a perfect gentleman and even walked her home, so thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said, his voice low.

Rogers clapped him on the shoulder again, but Weaver was saved from further misplaced gratitude by a knock on the office door. Rogers stepped out of his line of sight revealing Lacey, framed in the doorway and looking just as beautiful as she had the night before, though far more conservatively dressed. She was wearing a black pencil skirt that reached the top of her knees with a fluttery blue blouse on just the demure side of flirty, a matching black blazer slung over her arm. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail today and he thought she might be even more dangerous this way, sans the crop top and mini skirt. She had a cream colored scarf artfully tied around her neck and he wondered if he’d left marks on her the night before.

_Shit._

“Hey there,” Lacey said, coming forward to kiss Rogers on the cheek and link her arm with his, the sight only adding to Weaver’s nausea.

“Detective Weaver,” she added with a sultry little smile he was positive he wasn’t imagining before butting her knee against his. What the hell was she playing at? “ _Very_ good to see you again.”

She winked at him, actually winked, bold as brass, and he grunted in response, turning to his computer and staring blindly at the screen.

“We’re about to grab some brunch,” Rogers said, oblivious. “Care to join us?”

“Do I look like the type of person who eats brunch?” he barked out, pretending to be engrossed in his work. “I’m sure the two of you want to catch up.”

“Alright,” Rogers said, that amused half smile back in place. “Let me just run this back down to evidence and I’ll be right back.”

He grabbed the bloody notebook off his desk and Lacey watched him go before turning back to Weaver.

“So, you left in a hurry this morning.”

He looked up at her, finally. Straight in to those blue eyes that seemed like they could pierce through any armor he tried to throw up. She was a dangerous woman in more ways than one.

“Thought it was for the best,” he said succinctly.

“Ah,” she said, a little frown marring her beautiful face for a moment before she shook it off. “So you’re the love ‘em and leave ‘em type. I can respect that, I’m the same way. Still, you should come to brunch with us. I’d like to thank you for a thoroughly enjoyable evening.”

Weaver just stared at her, his mouth slightly agape. She was flirting with him, even now.

“You should go, Miss French,” he said, gesturing at the open office door behind her.

“Miss French?” she repeated with a wry smile. “You’ve been inside me, _Jim_. I think we’ve progressed to a first name basis.”

He’d forgotten he’d told her his name. It made him feel wrong footed. She was too close and the evil little beast that lived inside of him rebelled at being so exposed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, pushing his wheeled office chair back from his desk with force and standing. Lacey’s brows rose as he stalked toward her, radiating anger and annoyance and guilt, all the emotions he’d kept bottled all morning. He shouldn’t take them out on her. He was angry with himself more than anything else. But she had been complicit in this. She bore responsibility as well and she could damn well act like it.

“Sorry,” she said. “What did I do?”

Weaver spread his hands wide, indicating their situation at large.

“You come to my place of work, flaunting what happened between us. What are you playing at?”

Lacey shook her head looking so confused that he almost took pity on her. Her bottom lip was jutting out in a pout and he wanted to kiss her, to pull her into his arms and make everything better. He wanted to take her to bed again and forget Rogers existed or that he tried, on his better days, to be a decent man. He wanted her for himself because he was selfish and cruel and maybe Lacey was too. Maybe that’s why they fit so well together. Rogers was too good for the pair of them.

Lacey straightened her spine, jutting her chin out proudly and looking at him with a new determination in her eyes.

“What happened to the man I met last night?” she asked. “He seemed reasonable and fun and God was he good in bed. I’d like him back.”

Weaver scoffed.

“You can’t have him,” he said. “Honestly, how do you think this ends, Lacey?”

She cocked an eyebrow, bracing a red manicured hand against her hip.

“Well maybe with dinner, but hopefully with you fucking my brains out again.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t any part of you feel the least bit guilty?”

Her eyes widened. “Guilty? What, are you Catholic?”

“No,” he said, confused about the turn of the conversation. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

“Fuck if I know!” she nearly yelled. “Nothing has made sense since I entered this office!”

Weaver rushed past her to the open doorway, glancing down the hall beyond before turning back to face Lacey.

“Will you keep your voice down?” he hissed. “Rogers could be back at any moment.”

Lacey’s mouth fell into a little oval of understanding.

“So that’s what this is about,” she said with a nod. “You don’t want him to know what happened between us.”

“Of course I don’t!” he exclaimed. He wasn’t sure what was going on with millennials. Maybe they all had open relationships nowadays but regardless he was fairly certain he couldn’t go to work every day with Rogers if he knew his partner had fucked his girlfriend. He’d be punched in the face at the very least and he’d deserve it.

“Look,” he said, giving a weary sigh and rubbing at his forehead with one hand. “I think it’s probably best if we admit what happened was a mistake and never mention it again.”

“That’s really what you want?” she asked, her voice skeptical.

Weaver swallowed, staring at her beautiful face. How could she stand here seemingly unfazed by their situation? They had betrayed someone, someone who was important to both of them, and she couldn’t give less of a shit. Something hot and angry flared to life in his belly and he wanted to strike out at her. He wanted to make her feel as badly as he did.

“Yes,” he said, his voice clipped. “You’re nice to look at and a pretty decent fuck, but I don’t need to know any more about you than that. Go enjoy your brunch with someone who gives a damn.”

Lacey blanched.

“Fine,” she said. “Great. You’re a fucking asshole though, you know that?”

“I’m the asshole? You’re the one who…”

“Ready?” Rogers interrupted, poking his head in to the office. They both swiveled to look at him at the same time and Rogers gave an awkward smile. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Lacey said, shouldering her purse and striding toward him. “Nothing at all. Let’s go.”

Rogers looked to Weaver, his mouth opening to invite him along to brunch once more but Lacey just grabbed his hand, pulling him along with her.

“He’s not coming.”

As soon as they were gone, Weaver collapsed back in his office chair, his heart pounding in his chest. He dragged a hand over his face, the image of Lacey’s stricken face at his cruel words adding to the pool of guilt churning in his gut.

But it was all for the best.

* * *

 

Weaver made himself scarce at the station for the rest of the day, hoping to avoid Rogers and, especially, Lacey. She’d mentioned last night that she was only in town for a few days. He could lay low until she was safely back on the East Coast and he could pretend he’d never met a beautiful brunette with eyes like the sky after a summer rain and legs for days.

Yeah, not likely.

Weaver was not prone to flights of fancy or romanticism. He was grounded thoroughly in the real world, one that was disappointing, violent, and mundane. But last night when he’d looked into Lacey’s eyes, he’d felt something in a part of himself he’d thought long buried. She was beautiful and smart and a match for him in every way. After 50 years of life he’d finally gone and found the perfect woman and she was already taken.

Taken by his friend, Weaver had to acknowledge. If he really didn’t give a shit about Rogers he wouldn’t be feeling this way at all. He’d be able to get on with his work and his life without this weight on his chest, pushing him down and sucking the life from him. Over the past three months he’d begrudgingly become fond of the other man. He wasn’t used to caring about other people and that was probably the most uncomfortable realization of all.

He spent the afternoon tracking down one dead end after another in his search for their shooting victim’s old crew. By all accounts, Gretel Jackson was a loner. An old employer, a landlord, and a neighbor all told him the same thing. No family, no friends, quiet and kept to herself.

By the time he stumbled home that night he was exhausted and he collapsed across his bed without bothering to undress.

Sunday dawned gloomy and overcast, a chilly drizzle blocking out the sun as winter gave a last ditch effort to assert her dominance before the eventual embrace of spring. The weather matched his mood as he flipped up the collar on his coat, setting off for another day of pounding the pavement for lack of better things to do.

The only family he’d been able to dig up on Gretel Jackson was an elderly grandmother who lived in an assisted living place clear across town and after killing a morning digging up that information, he drove there, traffic making the trip twice as long as it should have been.

The home was a former hotel repurposed into small apartments made up of a sitting room, bedroom and kitchenette. “Independent Living, Together” boasted a sign at the entryway just inside the sliding glass doors next to a corkboard filled with flyers advertising bridge tournaments and water aerobics. His boots clicked across the marble floor as he approached the sign in desk, soft music playing and mixing with the babbling sounds of a large fountain placed prominently in the entryway. This seemed a pricey place for someone on a fixed income. Perhaps Gretel’s grandmother had a wealthy benefactor. Perhaps it had been Gretel herself.

“Weaver, Seattle PD,” he said, flashing his badge at a young woman in scrubs seated behind the sign in desk. “I need to speak with one of your tenants, an Amanda Branson.”

He was directed to one of the apartments on the second floor and he knocked, waiting patiently until the door opened revealing a squat woman with a bouffant of bottle blonde hair piled up on her head. She was wearing a pair of leopard print stretch pants with a form fitting black sweater cinched together with a silver chain belt, a can of diet coke in one hand.

“Well, hello,” she said in a gravelly voice probably attributable to years of nicotine use, leaning against the doorframe and giving him a once over. “And how can I help you today?”

“Detective Weaver, Seattle PD,” he said. “I had a few questions about your granddaughter, Gretel.”

The smile on Mrs. Branson’s face fell and she stepped back, letting him into the apartment.

She showed him to a small dining table right off the kitchenette and Weaver sat down, pulling out a small notebook and a pen.

“Tea?” she asked. “It’s about all I can rustle up in here. They allow us old fogies a hot plate if we’re not too far gone.”

“Thank you, that’d be lovely,” he said.

Mrs. Branson set about filling a kettle, pulling a few teacups from the cupboard.

“So,” she said as she bent to pull a box of teabags from the small pantry. “What do you want to know about Gretel?”

“Well, first I’d like to say how very sorry I am for your loss, Mrs. Branson,” he said diplomatically.

“Please, call me Amanda,” she said with a wave of her hand. Then she gave a disapproving shake of her head. “You know, I always knew this is how it would end,” she said. “That girl was never quite right after her mother died. Her father did the best he could, but he had a rough time of it. When he remarried, Gretel just ran off. I didn’t even know where she was until she was calling asking for bail money one night.”

The kettle began to whistle and she pulled it off the hotplate, pouring the boiling water into two floral teacups and bringing them over to the table to steep.

“Say, you want a little something extra in your cup?” she asked slyly, turning back to the pantry to pull a box of what appeared to be Lucky Charms out before digging a bottle of bourbon out from inside. “Strictly speaking we’re not allowed booze in here, but I say what’s the point of living this long if I can’t do what I like?”

Weaver snorted a little laugh and held out his cup as she poured a large dollop into his tea, filling it to the brim. He bobbed his tea bag around in the now thoroughly alcoholic brew, taking a sip with a slight wince. The bourbon was cheap.

Mrs. Branson sat down opposite him at the table, taking a long sip of her tea before setting the cup down on its saucer with an appreciative sigh.

“I do hate to be right about Gretel,” she continued. “Such a troubled girl, she never stood much of a chance.”

“Do you know anything about who your granddaughter associated with?” he asked, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Did she happen to mention any friends or a name of anyone she was close to?”

Mrs. Branson shook her head again. “I’m afraid we weren’t very close there at the end,” she said. “Gretel didn’t like to be reminded of her mother, my daughter. I think she found my presence painful, or at least that’s what I like to think. Otherwise she just didn’t care enough to check in.”

“I’m sorry about that,” he said, his voice as gentle as he could make it. Mrs. Branson gave him a sad smile.

“She died alone,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s a terrible thing to be alone, wouldn’t you agree, Detective?”

He swallowed, an uncomfortable feeling settling in his stomach. He’d never thought much about it. He was married to his job, he watched partners come and go without a care, he had no wife and no children and that had suited him just fine. But if he turned up dead in his apartment, what would people say about him? No friends, no family. His co-workers knew next to nothing about him. He was quiet. He kept to himself.

“I suppose it depends on if one is lonely or not,” he said finally. Was he lonely? He didn’t have the time to be lonely. He was always working.

Maybe that was _why_ he was always working.

He wrenched himself from his own internal battle to look around Mrs. Branson’s apartment for some clue to the girl her granddaughter had been. There was a photograph hung on the wall next to the table and Weaver looked it over, two children, a girl and a boy, about the same age, both with wide smiles as they held up red, white and blue popsicles, the sticky treats melting down their arms in rivulets and leaving smears of blue and red across their faces.

“Is this Gretel?” he asked, pointing to the photograph.

Mrs. Branson smiled wistfully as she looked at it. “Yeah,” she said. “Back in happier times. Fourth of July when she was nine.”

“And the young man?” he asked. “Who is he?”

“Oh that’s my Nicky,” she said with enthusiasm. “Such a smart boy. He comes to visit me even though his sister never did. Always brings me these fresh beignets, you know like they have in New Orleans. Never did make it to New Orleans. Have you ever had a beignet, Detective? They’re just fabulous.”

“Sure,” he said, cutting off her rambling. But he was fairly certain there was only one place in Seattle where you could get them. Sabine’s food truck in Hyperion Heights. “Do you mean to say Gretel has a brother who lives here in town?”

Mrs. Branson nodded. “Twin brother,” she clarified. “He’s the one who found this place for me. Think I could afford it on my pension?” she scoffed. “Not likely. At least one of my grandkids made good.”

Pieces were coming together in Weaver’s mind and he stood up.

“Thank you for the tea, Amanda. You’ve been quite helpful.”

“My pleasure,” she said, rising with him. “Though I don’t know what help I could have been. What’s this all about in any case? I thought the bastard that murdered my Gretel had already been locked up.”

“It’s an unrelated case,” he lied smoothly. “Just chasing down a lead on someone Gretel may have associated with.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Branson said with a shrug. “If they’re a friend of Gretel’s I’m sure they’re up to no good.”


	5. My Lady Disdain

By the time he made it back across town to the Heights, it was late afternoon, the sun setting on the horizon and turning the clouds a brilliant shade of orange.

He had a name. Nick. A common name, there were probably hundreds of Nick’s in the city. But a Nick who regularly visited Sabine’s food truck? A Nick who was connected to one of the theft victims? That narrowed things down considerably.

He punched in the number of the cell phone he’d given Tilly for emergencies praying she actually had it on her. It rang a few times before she picked up, the background noise wherever she was almost drowning out her greeting.

“Tilly,” he said into the phone. “You said Henry Mills had a roommate named Nick. Do you know his last name?”

“Yeah,” Tilly said. “Branson. Nick Branson.”

Weaver let out a sigh, nodding in to the receiver. Nick must have taken his mother’s maiden name professionally to distance himself from his delinquent sister. It was an inside job, just not the one he’d suspected. He was Henry’s roommate, he’d tagged along to the arcade with he and Rogers. He’d somehow picked up where his sister had left off, used his roommate’s car as a test run, and had befriended one of the detectives on the case.

“If you need to talk to him, he’s here at Roni’s,” Tilly said over the din behind her. “He’s at a table with Henry, Rogers and Lacey. Want me to put him on?”

“No,” Weaver said. “Look, don’t say anything. I’ll be there soon.”

Before he even had a chance to put down his phone, it vibrated in his hand. He glanced at the caller ID, seeing Rogers’ name, and ignored it, the third such phone call he’d ignored that day. He tossed his phone on to the passenger’s seat with a sigh. Despite losing himself in a case for the past 24 hours, it didn’t lessen his guilt any. He was still a shit partner, a shit friend. Eventually that feeling would fade. It had to. He just wished he could reasonably avoid Lacey and Rogers until the inevitable happened.

His reprieve was short lived before his phone buzzed again, and Weaver snapped it up, pressing it to his ear.

“What,” he growled.

“What on earth did you do to Lacey?” Rogers demanded, his voice accusatory, and Weaver’s stomach sank to his knees. He’d found out. Somehow the truth had come out. His palm felt sweaty around the phone in his grip.

“Look it’s…” he trailed off. How the hell was he supposed to explain himself out of this one?

“She won’t tell me what you did, but I know you did something. After Friday night she talked about how well you got on but now it’s like you’re the devil himself.”

Weaver breathed a sigh of relief. So he didn’t know after all.

“Just my usual winning personality, I suppose.”

Rogers snorted, apparently happy with the explanation.

“Well get your arse down to Roni’s, alright? Everyone’s here and you and Lacey can make up. Go back to being friends.”

“Friends,” Weaver’s mouth twisted into a sour expression. He was headed to Roni’s anyway.

“I’m on my way,” he said. There was no use causing a scene. He could meet Nick, get a feel for him, before he went accusing him of grand theft.

* * *

 

It was dusk by the time he pulled up outside of Roni’s, a warm blast of air and the scent of fried food and liquor enveloping him as he walked in. He spotted Tilly at the bar with Margot and she waved at him before pointing to Margot and mouthing behind her back “she’s so pretty!”

He shook his head with a smile, his amused expression slipping a bit when he saw Rogers waving him over.

He was sitting at a high bar table, Lacey on the stool next to him, Henry Mills and a dark haired man who must be Nick Branson sat across from them, and Roni leaning against the table, head thrown back in a laugh at something Henry had said.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” Lacey said, giving him a hard stare as he approached the table. She was drinking whisky, straight by the looks of it, and she tossed back what was in her glass, wobbling slightly on her stool. He wondered how many she’d had already.

“Good evening,” he said to the assembled group.

There were murmured hellos as he took up a spot at the end of the table opposite Roni.

“Two nights in one weekend,” Roni said, turning to face Weaver. “People will start to think you actually like this place. Or the company.” She gave a pointed glance to Lacey and he sighed inwardly, hoping Roni wouldn’t open her big mouth. He was sure he and Lacey had been a little more handsy than appropriate when they were last here.

“Weaver doesn’t like anyone,” Lacey offered. “Least of all anyone seated at this table, so what are you doing here?”

Weaver shook his head slightly. “I was invited.”

Tilly and Margot chose that moment to join them, Tilly sidling up beside Rogers and throwing an arm around his shoulders.

“Everyone,” she announced loudly. “I’d like you to meet the love of my life, Margot with a T.”

Margot waved awkwardly at them and Roni rolled her eyes.

“Been here two weeks and already has a girlfriend. I’ve lived here my whole life and it’s like I have the plague.”

Rogers winked at her. “I’d take you out, Roni.”

Roni made a show of giving him a once over before screwing up her face. “Nah,” she said. “I could never date a cop.”

“See there’s your problem, you’re too picky.”

“I prefer blondes,” she said with a smirk.

“Oh, hey!” Tilly said, standing up straighter as though something had just occurred to her. “Speaking of dates, maybe you lot will know this. I saw our boy Weaver leaving a hotel at an ungodly hour Saturday morning. Got any guesses as to who the mystery woman was? I’m hoping he had a gentleman caller, but he’s thus far proven tragically straight.”

Weaver’s stomach sank like a stone as he made frantic eye contact with Lacey. Trust Tilly to know too much for her own good.

Rogers looked at him, quirking an eyebrow before glancing at Lacey and Weaver knew the jig was up.

“Doesn’t matter,” Lacey said with an admirable game face. “He’ll probably never see her again. He doesn’t strike me as the type to dip his wick in the same place twice. Besides I bet he’s shit in the sack.”

Tilly’s eyes went wide, finally cottoning on to what the rest of the table must have already figured out. Roni’s eyebrows had risen so far they were in very great danger of disappearing in to her hairline. Henry was very purposely staring in to his beer and Nick was suddenly engrossed in something on his phone. Rogers was the only one blatantly staring at them, his mouth falling open.

The silence was overwhelming, the awkwardness of the moment reaching critical mass and Weaver coughed nervously.

“Lacey,” he said, with a nod in her direction. “I apologize if I offended you yesterday. It wasn’t my intention.”

“Oh, I’m back to being Lacey!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “That’s nice. I like being called by my name, especially by people I’ve…”

Before she could finish that sentence, Weaver grabbed her by the arm.

“Can we talk in private?” he hissed. He didn’t even care at how it would look to Rogers. He just needed to get her away from the group and talk some sense into her pronto.

“Fine,” she said, draining what was left of her drink before hopping off her stool. She was unsteady on her feet and Weaver placed a steadying hand on her lower back, steering her out the back door that led to the alley behind the bar, Rogers’ eyes burning a hole in his back. He was definitely getting punched in the face tonight.

“Get off me!” Lacey exclaimed, shaking off his hand as soon as they were outside. A light drizzle had started, the ominous clouds that had marred the sky all day opening up. Weaver flipped the collar of his jacket up to shield his neck and Lacey crossed her arms against her chest. She was underdressed for the weather having left her jacket inside. Her thin sweater slipped off her shoulder as she shivered slightly, her legs bare beneath her mini skirt.

He peeled his jacket off, shaking the rain from it before placing it on Lacey’s shoulders and she flinched back.

“Oh don’t be nice to me, now,” she hissed, her teeth chattering slightly. “You made it very clear that I was only good for one thing, and barely that.”

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

“That was cruel of me,” he admitted. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah right,” she spat.

“I could have found a better way to express myself,” he said. “I still think it was a mistake and that we should forget it ever happened, but I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

Lacey looked up at him, incredulous, before shaking her head.

“Fine,” she said. “Apology accepted. Night forgotten. There’s no reason for us to be having this conversation now is there?”

“I suppose not.”

She looked small there, shivering in his overly large jacket and his traitorous heart wanted nothing more than to hold her, do anything to make her look less sad. What right did she have to be sad in any case?

“I am sorry,” he said again. “But this is just as much your fault as mine.”

Lacey rounded on him, her eyes flashing.

“Oh fuck you, Weaver,” she spat.

“Well you already did that, _sweetheart_.” His patience was shot. This woman was exhausting.

“I thought we were forgetting that,” she shot back. “Seems like you’re doing a bang up job.”

“Perhaps if you didn’t throw yourself in my path at every available opportunity, I’d be more successful!”

“Throw...throw myself?” she stuttered. “My God, how big is your ego? I was here first, dipshit! You think I’m stalking you? You made me come, you didn’t make me see the bloody face of God!”

“Oh so you’ve had better?” he asked, the blood hot in his veins. He didn’t even feel the chill of the drizzle anymore, no matter that it had progressed to actual rain, leaving his hair damp and his shirt sticking to his skin.

“I’ve had way better,” Lacey exclaimed, stepping toward him until she was barely a hairsbreadth away. “I could find better tonight!”

Her chest was heaving, the color high in her cheeks, her hair curling about her face, and she looked so lovely he could hardly stand it. A drop of rain slid down the curve of her cheek and without thinking, he brought his hand up to wipe it away. Her eyes widened at the gentle motion, her lips parting and her cool breath fanning across his face. Before he knew what he was doing he’d grabbed her by the waist, pulling her to him and kissing her soundly.

He let out a low groan at the taste of her, his tongue pushing in to her mouth. She clung to him, her hands fisting in the sodden fabric of his shirt. She pushed up on to her tiptoes and his arms wrapped around her, holding her close.

This was stupid. They were right outside the bar; Rogers could come outside at any moment and confirm the suspicion he surely had. But he didn’t care. There was something drawing him to Lacey and he couldn’t fight it. He didn’t want to fight it.

“Oh! Pardon me,” a voice exclaimed from beside them and they broke apart, Weaver’s breathing ragged.

Nick Branson let out a huff of laughter, skirting around them.

“Sorry,” he intoned, heading to the mouth of the alley and Weaver came back to his senses, remembering the whole point of coming to Roni’s tonight.

He started following Branson and Lacey let out an exasperated sound.

“Where are you going?” she yelled, following after him. “You can’t just kiss me and run off.”

“I’m working,” he growled out.

“W—working?” Lacey threw her hands up. “What the fuck?”

“Go back inside, Lacey,” he said.

He could see her outraged face in his peripheral vision, but he didn’t have time to worry about her right now. He needed her to leave so he could do his job.

“Fine,” she spat, turning and heading back inside followed by the scraping sound of the metal door shutting behind her.

Nick Branson had stopped at the mouth of the alley, his shoulders hunched against the patter of rain falling heavier without the shelter of the buildings, and Weaver called after him.

“Wait,” he said. “Branson, right? Nick Branson.”

Branson turned to look at him, pocketing a cell phone and stuffing his hands in the pockets of his coat.

“Yeah,” he said, pausing. “Did you need something?”

“Early night?” Weaver asked.

“Um, yeah,” Branson said. “It’s Sunday. I’ve got work in the morning.”

“You’re an attorney, right? Which firm?”

Nick glanced around shiftily.

“Look, Detective, am I being questioned for something?” he said with a laugh.

“That remains to be seen,” he said, crossing his arms.

“If you want to talk to me about something, set up a time to meet. It’s late, it’s raining, and I’ve got an early meeting.”

He turned to leave the alley, but Weaver wasn’t letting him go that easily.

“I was sorry to hear about your sister,” he called after Branson’s retreating back. The other man froze, the line of his shoulders tense beneath his overcoat.

“Excuse me?” he said, rounding on Weaver and stepping back into the alley.

“Gretel Jackson,” he clarified. “She was killed last month, not far from here. I understand she’s your sister.”

“Ah,” Branson said with a stiff nod. “Well, Gretel made some bad choices. I only wish I’d been able to help her when she was still alive.”

“But she’s certainly helping you, isn’t she?” Weaver accused. “All those journals she kept. One of them must have made for some interesting reading.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Branson said with a shake of his head. “My sister died trying to buy meth in a back alley. We hadn’t exactly been close the past few years.”

“So why pick up where she left off?” he asked, bracing his hands on his hips. With his jacket off his shoulder holster was in plain sight, his hand near his gun if Branson tried to do anything stupid.

“What exactly are you accusing me of, Detective?” Branson asked, his eyes darting to the gun.

Weaver shrugged. “I’m not accusing you of anything. Just having a conversation.”

Branson laughed mirthlessly. “Well unlike the scum you usually deal with, I know my rights. If you want to accuse me of something, you better have enough for an arrest warrant.”

“Oh I do,” he bluffed. “I just thought we could settle this in a civilized manner and you could come in to the station to talk willingly. It would be such an ugly spectacle if I had to show up at your place of work and take you in.”

Branson walked toward Weaver, using his height in an attempt to intimidate him. He was used to it.

“Are you threatening me?” he asked. “I don’t respond well to threats.”

“Funnily enough, neither do I,” Weaver said, standing his ground. They stood there tensely for a moment before the door to the alley flew open next to them, Lacey charging out.

“No, you know what we’re not…”

Branson took the distraction as an opportunity and Lacey was cut off as he grabbed her, seizing the back of Weaver’s jacket that was still wrapped around her shoulders and hauling her to him. A gun materialized out of nowhere, pressed in to Lacey’s side, and Weaver drew his as well, quick as a flash, training it on Branson’s head.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” his hissed at Branson.

“You’re gonna turn around and go back in to the bar,” Branson said. “And in return, your little girlfriend gets to go home in one piece.”

“Not his girlfriend,” Lacey ground out, struggling in Branson’s grip.

“Think this through, Nick,” Weaver said. “You’re outside the most popular cop hangout in the neighborhood. Do you really think this possibly ends well for you?”

Nick snorted a laugh. “You act like I have anything to lose,” he said. “But I have everything to gain and I’m not letting you get in the way of that. Go back inside the bar, your girl lives, and you never hear a word from me again, understand?”

“What about your job? What about your friends? Henry?”

“I got fired months ago,” Nick snorted. “Because of Gretel. Because that bitch fucking blackmailed me into helping her and everything went to shit. And Henry? Fuck that guy. He’s just some idiot who answered a craigslist ad for a roommate. Money is what matters, detective. And by midnight tonight I’m gonna have it in spades. So why don’t you do what I said because as cute as she is, I don’t care if I have to paint the streets with her blood.”

“Jim,” Lacey said, the bravado wearing off and leaving her sounding afraid. Branson was inexperienced. He was hardly a hardened criminal. He’d never killed before, Weaver could tell by the way the gun trembled slightly in his hand. He could startle him, take him by surprise and draw his attention from Lacey. It would take a split second.

“Alright,” he said, turning his gun up in his hands. “Let her go.”

Branson’s grip tightened around Lacey’s chest.

“Go back inside.”

“Not until you let her go,” Weaver said. He caught Lacey’s eye, giving her a small nod of reassurance. “She has nothing to do with this.”

“I let her go, you shoot me,” Branson said, his eyes wild. “I know you Weaver. I know your reputation.”

Weaver smiled at him, a razor sharp show of teeth. “Then you know I have no problem shooting you even if you’re holding a hostage.”

Branson faltered, glancing down at Lacey, the gun lax in his grip, and Weaver made his move. He rushed at Branson, shoving Lacey out of the way and grabbing the gun in Branson’s hand.

The crack of gunfire sliced through the air, and for a moment, Weaver thought he’d escaped the bullet. He’d been grazed by bullets before, flesh wounds that needed little more than a bandage and some Neosporin. He’d never been truly shot before, certainly not at point blank range.

The first thing he felt was pressure, like he’d been punched in the chest by a heavy weight prizefighter. He stumbled back, collapsing hard on his back as rain pattered down on his face. That’s when the burning sensation started, radiating from his side in waves. He felt cold, but his side was burning up.

A face appeared in his line of vision. Lacey, looking frantic. He could feel her hands against his face, but he couldn’t seem to find his voice, to tell her he was okay if she’d just make the burning stop. She was yelling something, but he couldn’t hear her over the ringing in his ears like reverb from the gunshot.

She was fading away, tear filled blue eyes seemingly at the end of a long tunnel though he couldn’t remember her walking away from him. She was further and further away until the darkness took him and she was gone altogether.


	6. Some Cupid Kills With Arrows, Some With Traps

He surfaced slowly, the room around him swimming in to view. It was the second time this week he’d awoken in a strange bed with no immediate memory of how he’d come to be there. From the aching feeling in his side he figured this was for a much less pleasurable reason than last time.

Weaver blinked, clearing the grogginess from his eyes. He was in the hospital – Sisters of Mercy by the looks of it. He’d been here a fair few times before. There was a rhythmic beeping coming from the machines next to him so he must be reasonably healthy. The aching in his side was becoming sharper as he came to consciousness and he pulled at his hospital gown from under the covers, lifting it up to see a large bandage covering the right side of his torso.

“You’re alive,” came a voice from beside him and he turned to see Lacey sitting in the chair next to the bed, her eyes rimmed with red as though she’d been crying.

“Hey,” he said, his voice coming out croaky.

A look of relief covered Lacey’s face for a moment before dissolving in to fury. She leapt up from the vinyl chair, slapping him hard against his left arm.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, jerking to the right and causing a searing pain to lance through his right side. “What was that for?”

“For being a complete idiot!” she exclaimed, smacking him again. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

He stared up at her wide eyed as Lacey paced the floor, raking a hand through tangled hair.

“You could have died,” she continued. “And it would have been all my fault. Do you know…do you know how that made me feel?”

“Angry, apparently,” he surmised.

Lacey spun around, pinning him with a hard stare.

“No,” she said. “Scared.”

She shook her head, the fight going out of her.

“What were you thinking just running at him like that?” she pleaded. “You…you could have died.”

Weaver winced at the pain lancing through his side proving he was very much still alive.

“I didn’t,” he said.

“Yeah, but you lost a lot of blood. There was so much goddamned blood. I thought….” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Still, you’re lucky. The bullet passed right through you, didn’t hit anything vital. The doctors couldn’t believe it. They’re saying you must be immortal.”

Weaver grunted. He didn’t feel immortal. He felt a thousand years old.

“Did they get him?”

“What?” she asked.

“Branson,” he clarified. “Did he get away?”

“No,” Lacey said. “James caught up to him. He’s in custody.”

Weaver nodded, relaxing back against the flat hospital pillows. It wasn’t all for nothing then. This would probably prove to be he and Rogers’ last case together anyway. His partner would certainly put in for a transfer now that it was clear something untoward had happened between him and Lacey.

“Look you probably shouldn’t be here,” he said. “Things look bad enough as it is.”

Lacey’s eyes flashed dangerously. “What?” she asked. “You kissed me and then you took a bullet to the chest for me and you’re still going to push me away?”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he said, clasping his hands in his lap to keep from reaching for her, begging her to stay with him in action if not word. “I don’t want to make things worse.”

Lacey sighed, shaking her head wearily.

“You’re an idiot, Jim,” she said. “A goddamned fucking idiot.”

“No,” he countered with a frown. “I’m trying to do the right thing for once in my miserable fucking life.”

Lacey shook her head again, confused.

“How is being a complete and utter tool to me doing the right thing?” she demanded. “I really don’t get you at all. You go from utterly charming one minute to a complete douchebag the next. Pick a lane and stay in it!”

“Rogers is…my friend,” he admitted, staring off at the wall over Lacey’s left shoulder. “One of the only ones I have.”

Lacey nodded. “Yeah, he’s my friend too.”

That was an odd way to talk about her longtime boyfriend, but he assumed friendship was the base of any good relationship. Not that she had that good of a relationship with Rogers if she was sleeping around on him. He felt something heavy and leaden settle in his stomach that had nothing to do with his injury or the drugs they had him on.

“Well perhaps loyalty means a bit more to me,” he said coldly.

“Loyalty?” she asked flatly.

Weaver nodded.

“I want you to go.”

Lacey looked like she’d been slapped, staring at him in stunned silence for a moment. Then she turned, snatching up her purse from where it was sitting beside the blue, vinyl hospital chair.

“Fine,” she snapped. “And just so you know, my flight leaves this afternoon, so you’ll never have to see me again. Trust me, I don’t plan to visit.”

She stormed out, nearly slamming in to Rogers as he rounded the doorway with a cup of coffee clutched in his hand. He spun around, watching her fume off down the hall.

“What was that all about?” Rogers asked, gesturing behind him.

“Nothing,” Weaver said with a grimace.

“Seriously,” Rogers said, taking the seat Lacey had so recently vacated. “What the hell did you do to her? Because this is going above and beyond your usual shit personality.”

“Nevermind Lacey,” he said, attempting to sit up further in the bed. Rogers rushed forward to help him and he begrudgingly allowed him to prop the pillows behind his head. “What’s happening with Branson?”

Rogers took a seat again, blowing at the coffee in his cup before taking a sip.

“After he shot you, he tried to get away on foot. I caught him attempting to jack a car two blocks over.”

“And?” Weaver continued. “Clearly my hunch about him was right, but did he confess to the car thefts?”

“You just got shot,” Rogers pointed out. “Do you really want to talk about work?”

When the alternative was talking about Lacey, he certainly did.

“Yes,” he said with a grimace.

Rogers rolled his eyes, dragging a hand across his beard.

“It turns out he didn’t need Gretel’s journals. They were partners even before her untimely death. If anything her murder just accelerated his work. They owed a delivery of parts to a local crime lord for a fat payoff and he was planning to skip town tonight. He had a plane ticket and passport under a false name and a suitcase full of cash in the trunk of his car.”

Weaver nodded. “He said something about Gretel blackmailing him, causing him to lose his job.”

Rogers shrugged. “I suppose it’s why he needed a roommate to help with the rent on his fancy apartment. He became accustomed to a certain lifestyle he could no longer support. Or maybe he just enjoyed the rush.”

“And his grandmother,” Weaver said.

Rogers looked at him questioningly.

“He pays for her to stay at a nice retirement home across town. I suppose she’ll be out of there, now.”

Rogers nodded, taking another sip of his coffee.

“So about Lacey,” he began.

Weaver shot a glare at him but Rogers forged on bravely.

“Look, the poor girl took her own sweater off to apply pressure to your gunshot wound until the paramedics arrived,” he said. “She stayed by your side the entire time. She insisted on sleeping here last night after they patched you up. And then I see her practically running out of here, so what did you do?”

Weaver felt a pain in his chest that had nothing to do with the bullet that had sliced through him. She’d been so worried and he’d just kicked her out. If only she’d been single. If only he’d met her first.

“I told her to leave,” he said simply.

Rogers’ eyes widened as he set his coffee down on the side table by the chair.

“You’re a dick,” he said, and Weaver didn’t argue the point. There was a beat of silence before Rogers looked up at him, his lips quirking up into a grin.

“You slept with her.” It was a statement, no answer required.

“What?” Weaver asked, shaking his head to clear it. He was certain he must have hallucinated the dumb smile on Rogers’ face.

“You slept with Lacey,” Rogers continued with a knowing look. “And for some reason you’re panicking about it. Despite your best efforts the two of you couldn’t be more obvious.”

“What?” he repeated, completely at a loss. At this point he’d almost prefer Rogers shooting him again. At least that reaction would make sense.

“Look she’s gorgeous, she’s fun, she’s single, what’s the big deal?” Rogers said. “I’ve surmised you’re not exactly keen on human relationships, but this is beyond the pale. You’d think getting laid might make you less grumpy but the effect has been quite the reverse.”

The gears in Weaver’s head grinded to a halt, the information coming in completely at odds with the facts he’d been absolutely certain of just a moment ago.

“You…” he sputtered out. “She’s your…she’s your girlfriend.”

Rogers blinked at him, his face blank for a moment before he threw his head back in a laugh, the sound so incongruous with their conversation that it startled Weaver into a full sitting position, despite the pain in his side.

“Lacey?” Rogers exclaimed amid the laughter, grabbing his side in mirth. “You think _I’m_ with Lacey? Stop. I’m gonna piss meself.”

“What’s so funny?”

“She’s like my sister!” Rogers exclaimed. “I’ve known her since I was twelve. I would never even think of her that way. Why would you think she was my girlfriend?”

“You said she was,” Weaver said, his voice rising.

“No I didn’t!” Rogers exclaimed.

Weaver racked his brain. He was positive he hadn’t just made this up. It was true that he’d tuned out the details of Rogers’ personal life over the past few months, but Lacey was his girlfriend. He’d said as much.

“You called her the love of your life,” Weaver pointed out.

“Yeah, my platonic soulmate if you heard the rest of that sentence. You’d think a detective would have better listening skills.”

“You told Eloise Gardener your girlfriend was in town.”

“I lied!” Rogers exclaimed, throwing his hand up in the air. “I wasn’t even thinking about Lacey. I just wanted to avoid dinner at that woman’s apartment. She’d probably drug me and lock me in her closet.”

“So you and Lacey aren’t…” he trailed off, his head spinning.

“No,” Rogers said, shaking his head. “Never have, never will. In fact, the other night at Roni’s was a thinly veiled setup for the two of you. There was no accident with my shower. I spent the evening playing Settlers of Catan with Henry and Tilly.”

“What?” Weaver demanded.

Rogers shrugged. “I though the two of you would be pretty perfect for each other. I thought you could use a little lightening up and Lacey’s in town to interview for a job here. I’d love to have her close. I thought if she had an affinity for someone in Seattle it might make the move more appealing to her, but you’ve kind of botched that now, haven’t you?”  

Weaver rubbed a hand across his eyes. He had completely showed his ass on this one. All this time Lacey had been single. She must have been so confused ever since he snuck out of her hotel room on Saturday morning.

“She’s single,” he said, repeating the words until he could believe them. Then he dropped his head into his hands. “Oh God I’m an arse. I thought the absolute worst of her. I thought she cheated on you and couldn’t give a shit.”

He started to pull the hospital blankets from overtop him, pulling at the various wires attached to his person.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Rogers asked, half rising out of the chair.

“To take a piss,” he deadpanned. “Where do you think? I need to talk to Lacey. I need to apologize.”

“You were shot point blank in the chest mere hours ago,” Rogers pointed out.

“Yeah and I feel great all things considered. I’m checking out. Go get a nurse to take all this shit out of me.”

“Wait a minute,” Rogers said, stopping him and Weaver groaned, flopping back against the pillows. “You’ve spent the past 2 days thinking you slept with my girlfriend? You slept with her even thinking she was with me? What the hell, man!”

Weaver looked up at Rogers in disbelief.

“Are you going to get defensive over a relationship you’re not even in? If it’s any consolation there was a fair bit of whisky involved and I’ve felt awful ever since. Now get the nurse.”

“You felt awful?” Rogers asked. “Why would you feel awful? You don’t care about me. We’re only work colleagues.”

Weaver supposed he didn’t have a whole lot of dignity at the moment. He wasn’t wearing pants, for one. And all he really wanted was for Rogers to go get a nurse so he could chase down the woman who had the potential to be the love of his life.

“You’re my bloody friend, alright? Is that what you want to hear?”

Rogers smirked at him, a terrible thing that he wanted to slap off the other man’s face.

“You’re a shitty friend, sleeping with my fake girlfriend.”

“Yeah I’m still learning how that goes. Are you gonna get the nurse or am I going to pull this IV out of my arm myself?”

Rogers waved him off, heading out of the room with a chuckle. Perhaps having a friend wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. If nothing else, it was someone to grab a nurse and maybe even get him a change of clothes.

* * *

 

In the end, it was another two hours until Weaver was properly discharged. He was given a prescription for painkillers and one for antibiotics and told to return in ten days to get his stitches taken out. The doctor came in and advised him against returning to work for a few weeks and made sure to tell him he was leaving the hospital against medical advice and should really stay overnight. Weaver glared at him until he left and then gathered his things. A nurse showed up a moment later with a wheelchair and he kicked it out of the way.

“I got shot in the chest, not the leg,” he said as they left, an apologetic Rogers trailing in his wake.

The hotel wasn’t far from the hospital, and Rogers sped there in his muscle car with Weaver in the passenger’s seat. He was feeling slightly lightheaded from the drugs coursing through his system. He could probably have used another day of rest before any emotional confrontations, but Rogers had said Lacey’s flight left at two and there was no time to waste.

Rogers pulled up outside the hotel, giving Weaver an encouraging nod as he scanned the curb for sight of Lacey. He didn’t remember her room number from his excursion here the other night and he doubted Lacey would let him up in any case. He might just have to wander the street until she made an appearance.

Fortunately, luck was on his side. Lacey was standing just outside the hotel’s glass front doors, a wheeled suitcase at her side and a laptop bag slung across her shoulder. She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans with a comfy oversized sweater and a pair of heeled ankle boots that added several inches to her petite frame.

He threw open the door, stumbling out of the car as his side twinged painfully. He pressed a hand to his wound, breathing deeply through his nose as the world spun around him. He’d lose any dignity he’d managed to hold on to if he passed out cold at Lacey’s feet.

“This is a tow away zone,” Rogers called after him. “I’m gonna take the block. Give you some privacy.”

Weaver waved him off and Rogers peeled back out into traffic, disappearing into the melee. He took another deep breath before he started the long walk toward Lacey.

“Hey,” he said, stopping a few feet away from her. Lacey looked up from her phone, her eyes widening as she took a step back.

“What are you doing here?” she exclaimed. “You should be in the hospital. In case you’ve forgotten, you were just shot. Trust me on that one you ruined my favorite sweater.”

“So I heard,” he said, touching his side gingerly. “I owe you for that. And more than that, I owe you an explanation.”

“You’re an asshole,” she said succinctly, turning away from him. “No more explanation needed.”

“Please, Lacey,” he said, his hand reaching out to cup her elbow. “I have to talk to you before you leave.”

“My cab is almost here,” she protested, pulling away from his grip. “I have a flight to catch.”

“Please,” he said again, hating how whiny his voice was coming out. He wasn’t the type of man to chase down a woman. He wasn’t the kind of man who went out of his way to apologize for anything. He’d known Lacey for three days and she’d already turned him on his head.

Lacey turned back to face him before heaving a sigh at his pleading look. “Fine. You have exactly one minute of my time.”

He nodded, wracking his brain for what to say. He’d been so focused on seeing her again that he hadn’t actually thought anything through. His minute was ticking away and Lacey raised an eyebrow, her expression skeptical.

“I’m an idiot,” he finally blurted out.

“I know.”

Weaver blinked.

“Don’t you want to know why?”

“Does there have to be a reason?” Lacey asked, adjusting her grip on her laptop bag. “I thought it was just a declaration of fact.”

Weaver suppressed an eye roll.

“I was stupid, alright?” he said, his chest aching more by the second. “I thought you were dating Rogers.”

Lacey blinked at him, her expression blank.

“That’s preposterous,” she said. “Why would you ever think that? He’s like my brother.”

“Yes,” he said with a nod. “So I’ve been told.”

Lacey shook her head, her face screwing up in an adorably exasperated expression. “Wh—wh—what kind of person did you think I was seducing my boyfriend’s partner?” she stuttered out.

Weaver’s mouth fell open in an oval.

“You didn’t seduce me,” he countered, pointing at her.

“Uh, yeah I did,” Lacey said, crossing her arms. “The moment I laid eyes on you I decided I was gonna fuck you and I did. Ergo, my seduction worked. I was flashing my ass at you and touching you and asking your favorite goddamn sexual position. What did you think was happening?”

He shrugged. “I thought you were naturally flirtatious.”

Lacey let out an annoyed huff. “God you’re dense. How did you ever become a detective?”

Weaver propped his hands on his hips, wincing when the movement pulled at his stitches.

“I have a blind spot when it comes to myself apparently,” he admitted.

“I mean there were so many context clues that I wasn’t dating Rogers not even counting the fact that I slept with you,” she continued. Lacey appeared to be on a roll now. “You thought I was staying in a hotel instead of with my boyfriend? Who does that?”

“I thought you had an unconventional relationship,” he said with another shrug that tugged at his side. He really needed to limit his movements. “There were a lot of clues, but I chalked it up to not understanding millennial relationships.”

Lacey stared at him for a long minute before huffing out a laugh.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I think you wanted to think I was unattainable. That way there was no real risk to you. You’re not an idiot. You’re scared.”

“I really didn’t,” he promised. “If I had a quarter for every time I wished you were single this weekend, I’d have at least,” he paused, pretending to do mental math. “A dollar fifty.”

That startled a laugh from her and Weaver took the chance to step closer to her, reaching for her hand. She went willingly, allowing him to pull her toward him. Even in her boots he still had a few inches on her and she tipped her head back to look up at him.

“I’m still mad at you,” she said. “You’re still a dick.”

“I know,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. “But if you stay in town for one more day, I promise I’ll try to make it up to you.”

She raised an eyebrow, giving him a once over.

“What can you offer?” she asked. “You just got shot, I doubt you’re up for much.”

“I’m up for taking you to dinner,” he said, inclining his head toward her. “And maybe having an honest conversation where we get to know each other better. Clear up any other misunderstandings we might have.”

“Dinner, hmm?” she asked. “I get to pick the restaurant?”

“Whatever you want,” he agreed.

Lacey smiled at him, a brilliant thing that he would never get enough of.

“And once you’re feeling better, you’ll repay me even further?”

“I’ll be completely at your disposal,” he promised, leaning forward to nip at her lips.

“You might regret that,” Lacey mused. “Chances of me moving here are high. I killed that interview at Belfrey Developments.”

“Oh God you’re going to work for Victoria Belfrey?” he groaned out, his hands tightening on her waist. “I really am sleeping with the enemy.”

“Who said anything about sleeping,” she said, her voice full of sinful promise.

Her hands slipped under his leather jacket to play across his sides and Weaver let out a cry of pain, pulling away.

“Oh my God, you’re bleeding!” Lacey exclaimed, her eyes fixed on his chest.

Weaver glanced down at his side where bright red blood was blooming, staining his white shirt beneath his jacket.

“Ah,” he said with a nod. “So I am. You still haven’t answered my question though. Will you stay and go to dinner with me?”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded, her voice growing frantic. “You need a hospital!”

“And I’ll do that,” he promised. “If you agree to go to dinner with me.”

“That’s blackmail, Detective,” she accused. “I go out with you or you die in front of me?”

“Make your choice,” he said. The bravado was waning in his voice. He could feel cold sweat beading on his forehead. He really did need to get stitched up.

“Okay!” Lacey exclaimed, grabbing him by the elbows as if afraid he would collapse at any moment. “I’ll go out with you. Play your cards right I’ll even throw in a sexy nurse outfit.”

“Ah! Now that’s definitely worth a bullet,” he said with a smirk.

“You’re incorrigible,” she said, steering him toward the cab stand.

“I’ve definitely been called worse,” he said, his breathing coming harder. “Most recently, by you.”

“Yeah, somehow I don’t think that’s the end of that.”

She got him into the cab, Weaver falling into the seat with a relieved sigh, as the driver turned around to face them.

“Airport?” he asked.

Lacey glanced at Weaver next to her, the stupid smile not leaving his face no matter that he was pale and sweating with blood all over his favorite shirt.

“Hospital,” she said, smiling back at him in spite of their predicament. “And make it quick, I’ve got a date tonight.”

Weaver tangled his fingers with Lacey’s pulling her in for a quick kiss and she playfully shoved him away.

“You really better not die on me now,” she joked.

“I wouldn’t dare.”


End file.
